Just dance
by Anuna
Summary: In a non magical AU, where Draco is a promising young cellist and Hermione a professional dancer who fears success has long abandoned her, they could be each other's chance to achieve things they want. If they don't kill each other first.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **_Just dance _

**Pairing:** Draco/Hermione

**Rating:** teen for now

**Genre:** romance, humor, drama, alternate universe. A cracky alternate universe at that.

**Summary: **in a non magical AU, where Draco is a promising young cellist and Hermione a professional dancer who fears success has long abandoned her, they could be each other's chance to success. If they don't kill each other first.

**Author's notes:** this is a story I entertained myself with during a hospital stay. It was a fun idea that wouldn't leave me alone and I kept turning it over in my head, until I wanted to see it written. I have some knowledge about the things I'm going to write about (music and dancing), and I did do my research, however I'm aware I might not be as convincing or good as someone who is a musician or dancer. I'm always for suggestions how to make my story better, and I'll be super happy if you can recommend me something to read, so I can broaden my research. (However, I kindly ask you that, if you don't like or approve what I've written here, you refrain from bashing.) You'll probably notice that I really love Strictly come dancing/Dancing with the starts shows, and I loosely based the show in this story on them – I'm not writing about the real shows, or real people. Everything's fictional and done in spirit of good fun.

I hope you'll have fun as I recast the characters we all love into slightly different, but hopefully fitting new roles. I thank you, if you decided to give this story a chance. Comments are so _**very**_ appreciated! If you have any questions, just ask!

_**Just dance**_

_The cello is such a melancholy instrument, such an isolated, miserable instrument._ - Ritchie Blackmore

There was rain. There was lot of rain, creating a thick curtain in front of his windows, as gloomy as London could get. Immaculate absence of annoying stimuli was so praised these days. In Draco's opinion it was perfect – that is until a loud knock interrupted silence mixed with the sound of raindrops beating against the window.

He knew the knock. Every person had a certain rhythm. He was familiar with rythms, paces, tunes, beats. An insisting knock – knock – KNOCK at his door was Blaise Zabini's, and the way it sounded, fast and impatient, made him assume that Zabini was on the hunt. After him. Draco shut his eyes, willing his mind to focus on the sound of the rain instead of knocks. On the other side of the door Blaise was getting more and more impatient.

"Malfoy! Open the bloody door! I know you're in there," he was shouting now. His voice found its way through the music studio Draco had proudly arranged himself – it was mostly void of furniture (because nothing should be in the way of the sound) meant for music, unobstructed by nothing in its way. It was a three – room flat originally, but Draco had the walls brought down; which left the kitchen, the toilette and one large room meant for his cello practice. The hardwood floor, the walls, the way the sound spread through the space was perfect. There was a sofa in the corner, a sofa currently occupied by Draco, but other than that, there wasn't any more furniture, except for one chair in the large room, and standard kitchen furniture.

At this point Draco's remarkable success at creating such unobstructed space meant for sound was a downside. "Blimey, mate, open the door. I know you're in there, snogging that instrument of yours. Guess what? You can't live of playing goddamn cello."

Now, if only Zabini's insults were more crative.

"I'm not snogging anything," Draco shouted back. Pretending he wasn't inside was rather pointless. Blaise was like an itch, stubborn and persistent, a trait that made him a great agent and an awful acquaintance.

"And no wonder you're not snogging anything, locked up in that Dracula room of yours!"

"Sod off Zabini," Draco's body was refusing to move from the sofa. He would eventually have to get up, though, or that old hag from the floor below would come screaming bloody murder. Or call police. That was the last damn thing he needed.

"I have pizza," Blaise sing songed. G major, off key. Most people had their heads tuned in G major and produced rather cheerful vocalizations. It didn't matter that Blaise wasn't actually singing, in Draco's opinion it was off key, period. "And you're _starving_."

That worked, allright. He was pretty hungry.

"Bloody hell, Malfoy, open the -" Draco pulled the door open and Blaise nearly fell, stopping himself in mid – knock with a fist. "Oi! You nearly gave me a heart attack, you blond wanker!"

"You're trying to break down my door and _I'm_ the wnaker? Seriously, Zabini," Draco folded his arms across his chest. Blaise was flawlessly dressed and carrying two boxes which spread promising aroma around. "Didn't you yell at me to open the door?"

"Yes, but not like that," Blaise shot back, snurching his nose. "Ugh, mate, you urgently need a shower and a change of clothes."

"Last time I checked you were my agent, not my _mother_."

"Malfoy, I was hired _by_ your mother, if you fail to remember. Technically, I answer to her, not to you -"

"That means I can take these -" Draco grabbed the boxes from Blaise's hold, "pout like a petulant child that my mother thinks I am, and throw you out?"

"Hold your breath, mate. That would be unwise for business, your money, your -"

Draco opened the door wider and let Blaise inside. "I get the point! Too bad I can't fire you."

"You _wound_ me," said Blaise dramatically. "Still no furniture, I see," he commented as he went straight to the kitchen.

"I have everything I need," Draco replied matter of factly as Blaise put the pizza boxes on the kitchen table. "Don't need any more furniture in here."

"It's creepy," Blaise argued, sitting down and opening the box nearer to him.

"It doesn't need to be pretty," Draco fished out a fork and a knife out of the cutlery drawer. "It serves the purpose."

"Hearing your own farts?"

Draco rolled his eyes as he sat down across Blaise. "You have absolutely no table manners."

"You're aristocratically boring," Blaise replied. "I, on the other hand, wouldn't die of hunger out in wilderness."

"I am superior," Draco started to neatly cut his pizza, while his stomach growled. He ignored the loud protest valiantly, determined to hold up his principles. _Always eat in a polite way, son,_ his mother would say. "And you would probably die of a broken ankle or lack of plush cushions."

"Superior, my ass," Blaise said over a mouthfull.

"You keep talking to me in that disrespectful manner. You're a shitty agent, Zabini."

"You're lucky to have one, mate."

"Oh thank you _so much_ for reminding me."

They fell silent for a moment and continued to eat. Draco chose not to ponder too long on Blaise's latest comment. Blaise was an ass, but he meant well, and that was simply their usual communication. Not that entire media fiasco with his father was bothering him. It wasn't new news; what bothered him was that some shitty journalist or another chose to make the whole thing news over and over again. They kept digging up dirt about his family. The most recent was his great – great- great –- whatever - grandfather being involved with West India company. Someone called his father a slave trader spawn on television. The whole thing was turning disgusting. It seemed it would never end, not even six months after Lucius Malfoy's business débâcle. Stealing from your employees was never popular, of course, unfair treatment of your overseas based workers who hand – pick the tea you sell (and do everything else that's needed) is generally frowned upon, especially if you don't pay for things like, eh, health insurance? Draco was pissed at his father. Was he truly convinced that in modern world he would never be caught?

"I thought you thought Rita Skeeter isn't worth reading," Blaise offered.

"She isn't, however so many people are inferior to my intellect and judgement. They enjoy reading trash."

"Draco Malfoy, intent on changing the world," Blaise chuckled. Draco rolled his eyes, deciding this was just bad attempt on Blaise's part to cheer him up.

"Bring on the windmills," Draco mock saluted.

"Okay, we may be making some murky progress here. I always say you're more cranky when you're hungry."

Draco decided he would say something foul hadn't the pizza been so delicious. Instead he decided to be agreeable for a moment, just to enjoy more eating and less talking.

"Possibly. Why are you here, Zabini?"

"Two reasons," he lifted one finger. "Your mother is trying to reach you for two days straight, and says your cell phone is turned off."

"I may have thrown it off the bridge." Draco said offhandedly.

"Fine. Call your mother. Second," another finger went up in the most irritating manner known to man. "We need to discuss certain things. Like the press conference."

Oh, bring in the clowns, Draco thought. That was just the thing he didn't want to discuss, but he had no say in it.

"Very classy, Zabini. Are you doing one of those, feed – the – man – before – you – put – him – to – death things?"

"No, but I _can _if you insist. I assure you I would rather spend time in dentist chair, than work on your brilliant reputation. But I'm not in a dentist chair, am I?"

"I am all ears, Zabini," Draco said, leaning back in the chair. "I suppose I fulfilled my insult quota for the time being."

"Oh, thank heavens! While I'm aware of the reason why you're hiding out in your little hermit hut, we need to talk strategy here. I don't accept jobs so that I'd watch my clients and their careers sink down the drain, and I dare saying you're not the biggest asshole I worked with."

Draco cleared his throat, attempting to find a position that would be more comfortable. In truth and honesty, he didn't know of a way to make himself more comfortable at the moment.

"Really? Who wins that prize?"

"Sorry, mate. Confidential."

"And you call _me_ boring."

Draco resumed eating and Blaise leaned forward, obviously preparing to make a significant point.

"I do. Now get serious and focus please," Blaise snapped his fingers. "You can't act like this. You can't sit in here, acting like you're guilty. You're a goddamn arrogant bastard, now it's time to act like one."

Draco smirked with disbelief. Someone else would probably say he should bow his head or something.

"Are you freaking serious?"

"Tell me, Malfoy, were you able to choose your parents?" Blaise's reply was quick and quite serious.

"We're going with that pathetic shit? _He's my father, I didn't choose him_?"

"I think it may be better to go with, _he's my father, it's his mistake, but he's still my father._ It would make you look like you actually have a heart," Blaise replied.

"God forbid," Draco said. "I don't have a heart, I'm a Malfoy."

Blaise ignored him.

"Then, we need you to do something people would like. Something they wouldn't expect of you. That is, if you want your concert tour not to be a complete disaster."

It was time for the painful part. Draco cringed. Did he really have to point out the obvious? He was known for being arrogant, a music snob and harsh music critic. People did like his music, the album he did with Theo Nott, the rock guitar wizard was immensely popular, but Draco's personality wasn't really.

"It's three months away. I doubt even you can convince people out there that I'm suddenly a fluffy, lovable kitten."

"I don't have any intention fighting a losing battle. You can still be the arrogant socialite and musical snob, but we need to convince the common folk that you're fun. Like Prince Harry while drunk, only with more class. And preferably not drunk."

Draco raised an eyebrow in, what he assumed, was a perfectly arrogant, aristocratic socialite manner – he learned it from his father, after all.

"And how do you suggest I do that?"

Blaise rolled his eyes, like the solution was simple and painfully obvious.

"We want people to think you're fun to be around. The media will be monitoring your every step -"

"As if I wasn't already aware. My phone wouldn't stop ringing. It was giving me a headache. Which is why I threw it away -"

Blaise held up his hand and cut in.

"And I assume you were attempting to cure yourself of that headache by hugging that piece of wood with strings."

"It's more huggable than most people I know."

"Hmmm, that sounds like a good theme for a photoshoot -"

"Oh, please, Zabini, I hate those -"

"Your tour _needs_ those," Blaise pointed it out in a non negotiable manner. "Also, you need to dye that excuse of hair -"

"We've already been over that one. I am _not _dying my hair, dammit. I'm a grown man, not Justin Bieber."

Sometimes, talking to Blaise did remind Draco of conversations with his mother – oh wait. Agents were entitled to criticize just about everything; hairdo and clothing included.

"Fine. As I was saying. We need to convince -"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. That I'm not an evil spawn of a man whose ancestors were probably involved in slave trade, but a snarky fun type of a person. So what do you suggest? That I run around naked?"

Blaise shot him _oh, please_ look.

"Less drastic than that."

"Join that Jedi sect?"

"You certainly don't need a psychiatric diagnosis attached to your name."

Fair point.

"Considering that I am all out of ideas, I suggest you do your job and come up with something," Draco crossed his arms in the best passive aggressive manner he knew.

"I already did, Malfoy. You get to keep your hair as it is, but you have absolutely no say in this -"

"It's non negotiable, Miss Granger. This school provided for part of your recent training. The least you can do is provide some good publicity for it."

Hermione frowned, finding no argument against that. It wasn't a request that was being made here. She was contract bound, she knew what she was signing up for when she negotiated that agreement with the previous owner of the dancing school. The previous owner of _Charming Shoes_ (a name as ridiculous as could be, really) wouldn't have used the contract like this. But that was before. The new director, and soon to be owner as well was something else.

Ginny Weasly, Hermione's best friend since university, preferred calling Dolores Umbridge she – devil. Hermione usually rolled her eyes at that, but Ginny vas rather vocal about her misgivings. Hermione consoled herself with the fact that Dolores Umbridge wasn't in complete ownership of their rears – yet. She owned part of the _Charming Shoes_, the other part still belonged to Miss Bagshot. She – devil was the director, rearranging matters as she saw them fit, while Miss Bagshot, who cared about her dancers, was only getting older and enjoyed talking to her cats. Hermione hoped her contract would be up before Umbridge took over completely and turned them all into slaves. It was getting less about dancing and more about the amount of money. Hermione alredy worked more hours than she thought she physically could. Umbridge held the reins, she was the one picking the music and the dance. Which, simply put, meant hell for everyone else.

"Isn't winning the tournaments something that proves the financial support you _kindly_ gave me wasn't wasted?"

Dolores Umbridge coughed. She had this irritating, quiet cough which usually meant the other party in the conversation was threading on precarious ground.

"Miss Granger. Let's not fool ourselves here," Umbridge said delicately. This woman never set her foot on the dance floor, _ever_; but she viciously kept a score on everyone and everything. "You are an _employer_ of this school. An employer who recently requested to attend advanced classes which was supposed to improve your teaching skills. Not your competing skills. If I am not mistaken you did just that, you received your certificate and those fine skills you acquired – and _I_ paid for – need to be put to use. We want to use those skills to attract new and promising young dancers to this school, do we not?"

Hermione felt her blood starting to boil. She didn't need to hear the rest of this tirade – besides she wasn't five year old and not naïve -Umbridge's logic was predictable, and she never failed to remind Hermione that she didn't win a single competition in last two years.

"... and it would be, I must say, very unwise to keep sending you to championships you obviously aren't capable of winning any more, which means, this school has to put you to best use possible."

_Obviously. God damn it. _

Hermione growled inwardly.

"... and there is no way we're going to attract new clients, if we don't advertise ourselves."

"Joining a reality TV show is hardly an advertising!"

"That is where you're wrong, _dear_," Umbridge said, and there was nothing kind or dear about the way she pronounced that last word. "I am sure you, Miss Weasly and Mister Wood will do a wonderful job for the school."

Five minutes later Hermione walked out of her office feeling defeated.

She knew what _Just dance_ was all about, thank you. Sure, it looked fun on TV and it was better than most reality shows out there. It actually taught people something, but other aspects of this were troubling. The show came down to professional dancers teaching celebrities of various kinds how to dance. Eight pairs entered the show competition, each consisting of one professional and one celebrity member, and competed against each other in a TV show that lasted nine weeks. Fair enough, but Hermione had her share of celebrities to last her a lifetime.

Right now Hermione wanted to be as far from media as possible – two years weren't a short amount of time, but her divorce still felt fresh. Her ex was now definitely a celebrity who pranced around with a new girlfriend while Hermione struggled with herself and the things she'd lost. It was bad enough that her divorce was turned into public entertainment by the paparazzi and tabloids, which enjoyed comparing her to Jennifer Aniston (they were _not_ alike. Not physically, not in any other way, and Ronald Weasly was certainly not Brad Pitt.), On occasion some paparazzi would still take a picture of her even now. Big sunglasses, scarves and hats were her standard accessories on the days when she didn't want to be bothered. They would stick a picture of Ronald with his brand new witless girlfriend next to hers, making snide remarks of how tired Hermione looked and wondering if Ron's newly found happiness was bothering her.

_Of course _it was bothering her. She wanted her marriage to last, and now she was seeing him across front pages holding hands with someone else. Hermione liked to think she was strong, she did hard work with the grief and the anger, but a good deal of pain still remained. Two years were a short time to get over past ten years of her life. Hermione would throw those away. One couldn't throw away a life, though. She felt like she divorced mutual friends, places they went to, songs they listened together – oh God, the _songs._ (Songs she danced to. Songs were ruining her, and they were ruined _for_ her. )

Ginny didn't turn her back on Hermione, even though Ron was her brother. She, Fred, George (the mayhem twins Ginny called them, a bit older than Ron) and Harry; their college friend, were pretty much all that Hermione got to keep.

Thankfully, she was done with the dancing lessons for today. Two particularly untalented groups had exhausted her energy. When she entered the locker room, she found Ginny right there.

"Not good," Ginny said as she pulled on her knee high boots and looked at Hermione's face.

"I _hate_ her," Hermione went to her own locker and sat on a bench.

"_Everyone_ hates her," Ginny clarified. "We're using her picture instead of darts target now."

"She is going to ruin this school," Hermione huffed. "We're not a bloody circus. We're supposed to compete and train people, and not -"

Ginny got up, straightening her dress.

"Technically, this _is_ training people. Only, a certain brand of people," Ginny said and Hermione glared weakly in her direction. "Yes I know. My brother kind of people."

"Good God, Ginny, can you imagine -"

Ginny sat down again, only this time next to Hermione, so she could properly glare at her.

"Hermione, celebs, unlike us here, have actual choice if they'd do this or not. You know full well how good Ron is at the dance floor. Sorry to bring up the -"

"Not your fault, Gin," Hermione said quickly, with a determined set of shoulders. It wasn't Ginny's fault. Ginny was her friend before Ron was even in the realms of being a romantic interest. The dancing lessons she attempted giving Ron felt like a lifetime ago.

The music stops and you have to stop dancing. Hermione thought the bonds they all made back then would last an eternity. Perhaps it was so naïve of her to believe that, but when you love, when you _marry_, you want it to last. Ginny put a light arm on Hermione's shoulder, breaking her out of her thoughts.

"My point is, it's very unlikely he'll compete, even if they do invite him," Ginny said. "He's on a tour right now," she added with an appropriate roll of her eyes.

"And being an ass about it?"

"You can't even imagine. Oh, wait, you can."

They laughed, a laugh that started out cheerful until it drowned in layering silence around them. Ginny was sweet and kind, and she had the vicious sense of humour that she shared with her twin brothers, but in some sense she was tougher than all of Weasley boys – six of them to be exact. The way she took her stand and refused to leave her friend, even after she divorced her brother took courage.

"I'm sorry it turned out like this," she said calmly. "I think you were wonderful to him."

"Until I couldn't be any more," Hermione observed as Ginny squeezed her hand.

Hermione sighed and huffed. Oh, yes, a tour. The guy who complained about _her_ career as a dancer, and being away from home was now touring the fucking island with his band, and rest of Europe was to follow. His career made it completely okay to be away from home, right? Not that they shared a home any more, but it was a matter of principle. She felt angry and then she reminded herself not to become angry, or sad; because she couldn't go back in time. She had to move on.

"Look at this the other way around," Ginny said practically. "This is _your_ personal chance for good publicity. Not the school, but _you_. Your shining moment. And if you're lucky, maybe you'll get a partner who's tall, handsome and someone whom Ron hates."

Hermione tried very hard not to burst into fit of unwilling giggles. She didn't succeed.

"You aren't a very good sister, do you know that?"

"Bollocks. I'm a terrific sister. Ron deserves to have his ass kicked sometimes. You're my best friend, and I'm still angry at Ron. And I have every right to be," Ginny nudged Hermione's shoulder with hers.

"Will you come to the party?"

Hermione looked up at Ginny, frowning.

"Which – oh my God, Gin," she covered her mouth with her hand. Ginny's smile faded a little bit, but her eyes were steady and understanding.

"You can't do this forever, you know? This is getting really ridiculous."

"I know. I just don't feel like going to those parties yet."

The parties. Oh, God, the school's parties. Another thing that was ruined, just like songs and places where she and Ron went to. Sometimes it felt like she divorced her friends, her _life_.

"We miss you, you know?"

"And I miss you, guys. Just -"

"Okay. But I won't be patient for long now, Hermione," Ginny hugged her. "Gotta run."

With a quick kiss on the cheek, Ginny was gone. Hermione still sat there, feeling somewhat better, trying to find some irony in it.

A tall, dark, handsome partner? Someone Ron would hate? Hermione chuckled, wishing she simply didn't care any more, but she did. She got up, thinking about competitions, about her training, about the things she wanted, and things which prevented her to do what she really wanted to be doing. She thought about Umbridge and this ridiculous plan of hers – Umbridge signed three of them up for this because she simply could do it, because that would be promotion for soon to be _her_ school; because it would eventually mean more money for her.

Well. Hermione's contract was going to be up in ten months.

Hermione took a deep breath. She wasn't a quitter, she wasn't someone who could be scared away. She would endure this and come out victorious.

It wouldn't hurt if she got some good publicity for herself, especially if she wanted to use her savings and start a school of her own. She straightened her back with deciding she would use this situation to her absolute advantage and finally leave all of that emotional _garbage_ behind her.

And she _would_ go to the next party, dammit.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hello, hello! Here comes the second chapter, where things start to happen. I hope you'll enjoy it, and before I leave you to read, I want to apologize for messed up formatting of the previous chapter. The FF net wasn't cooperating with me, and I didn't know how to fix it, without deleting the entire thing. Thank you all who read the first chapter, bookmarked it, left a comment and gave it a chance. I suppose AU stories like these aren't very usual, and I hope you can still have fun with it. I will do my best to keep the characters true to themselves, even if they're in these unusual circumstances. **_

_**Again, thank you all so much – read it, enjoy it, let me know how you liked it!**_

**-xx-**

**TWO**

"Come on, ladies, jump in and catch your ride to Creepy Brothers Studios."

Oliver Wood opened the doors to his Fiat Punto theatrically, and Ginny rolled her eyes at him.

"Oliver! That's mean, I've told you before," Ginny entered Wood's car, taking the seat next to him. Colin and Dennis Creevy were the guys with cameras. The Just dance show was their biggest project so far. Hermione met them few years back then the _Charming_ dancers were involved in a charity thing. She still remembered that photo shoot and video session. Fred and George insisted on calling Dennis and Colin Creevy the Creepy Brothers, because if anyone had a creepy obsession with angles and expositions, it was them. Other than that, they were fun and generally okay.

"That's how your brothers call them and they don't seem to mind. In fact they like it," Oliver replied. "Got room back there, Hermione?" Oliver asked as Hermione shoved a pile of books and training clothes to make room for herself in the back of the car.

"Well, if Fred and George are wankers, you don't have to be," Ginny said, raising her eyebrow at her regular dance partner. "You need a bigger car, Oliver. This is horrible."

"Spoilsport," Oliver complained. "The car is just fine."

"Wood, this is a pigsty, not a car," Hermione was finally seated, trying to find more room for her legs, achieving this only when she sat sideways. She was feeling nervous; they were about to go to a first meeting concerning _Just dance_, and she didn't even know who her partner was supposed to be. It didn't strike her as a good thing. Colin Creevy called her two days ago, telling her that there was some sort of switch, and that someone had to cancel, but now they had someone new for her. Hermione believed in planning when it was possible and this definitely did _not _sound good. However, she didn't have much choice but to go along with the plan, telling herself that this was a challenge and she would treat it as such, so help her God.

"Complaint taken. I don't care. Now please fasten your seatbelts," Oliver grinned over his shoulder at Hermione. She rolled her eyes at him, kicking aside a pair of his dancing shoes with her left foot.

"Have any prayers to say, Hermione?" Ginny turned around, grinning.

"I might try, but once he gets that engine started -"

Her words were cut off by the sound of the car. "Here we goooooo -" Oliver sang.

"god be merciful, and _you_ better be nice once we're there," Ginny warned, poking Oliver's bicep.

"Gin, I _am_ nice. If you're forgotten, I'll remind you that you're, in fact, the queen of snark. I'm simply the cranky supporting cast," Oliver was switching gears and changing lanes. "I am nice, right, Hermione?"

"She won't say anything while your hands are on that wheel," Ginny said.

"That's because she's smart and doesn't have a death wish," Oliver replied. He took a sharp turn right, because he simply enjoyed driving like a lunatic, and someone behind them futilely hit the car horn. "Jumpy, aren't we?" Olliver was obviously having fun.

"Wood! I do want to get there alive, and preferably in one piece!" Hermione was protesting loudly from her seat in the back of his small car.

"Oh, shush, you scared women folk," Oliver said, pushing the play button on his CD player.

"This isn't going to help," Ginny observed as she recognized Ricky Martin. "Oliver, this is party music, not driving music, at least not for _you_."

"Oh and what do you suggest I listen to while I drive?"

"Oh I don't know, how about Enya?"

Behind them Hermione was already in stitches. One might suspect that they were committing this entire show to cheer her up, which wasn't beneath Ginny's scheming, but Hermione knew for a fact that red-headed Weasly folk needed banter and snark just as much as they needed air. So she laughed, not thinking about where they were driving to.

"Wood, I am hurting just looking at the way you're sitting there. Not to mention I have to sit sideways in this can of sardines," Hermione was in the mood for some teasing herself. It was difficult to stay long in sullen mood while around Ginny and Oliver. "Isn't this car too small?"

"The car is perfectly fine," Ginny was speaking before Oliver managed to stop singing and start talking himself. "he just doesn't know how to adjust his seat and he fills it with crap. Yous houdl see how we go to the competitions."

"How?" Hermione was failing not to laugh.

"With my car," Ginny answered.

"You've forgotten to mention, dearest Gin, that you mess up the seat every time you drive," said Oliver.

"That's because your legs don't fit in a normal sized car!"

Behind them Hermione fought to get some air and calm down, because she had some questions for them, considering that both already competed at _Just dance_.

"Guys, do you actually know who your partners will be?" Hermione managed finally. "I talked to Colin and he said something about last minute changes. I didn't like how that sounded -"

"Oh, don't worry," Ginny abruptly grabbed the handle above her head. "Oliver! I assure I do _not_ have a death wish! Would you stop driving in the rhythm of this music?"

"Ginny, technically you can't drive in rhythm -"

"_Technically_ I'm going to smack you when you least expect it!" Ginny glared at Oliver. She craned her neck, so she could look at Hermione and address her question. "Don't worry, it's a normal thing. People sometimes have to cancel their participation because of personal matters. Besides, you can't dance without a partner," Ginny winked.

"Hopefully someone who doesn't have two left feet!" Hermione had to shout over Ricky Martin's voice.

"And not fat! You don't want someone really chubby," Oliver was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as they waited for the green light. "Or someone old!"

"It's not nice to call people fat," Ginny sounded like an elementary school teacher.

"Point taken, mum," Oliver said in reply, continuing to beat his fingers as he observed the traffic around them. "How are you going to say it? Someone hard to hug all the way around?"

Ginny slapped the closer side of Oliver's head. Sometimes he simply enjoyed being _politically incorrect_, as he called it.

"You want someone with decent sense of rhythm, and without fear of moving his hips. Size doesn't matter if he's got those," Ginny said. "I've got the cook – guy."

"Oh the vegetable revolution guy?" Oliver asked. He wasn't very familiar with most celebrities, but Neville Longbottom Cooking Show was simply too popular not to be known."What's his name, Neville – something?"

"Longbottom?" Hermione asked leaning forward. "He seems really sweet and fun."

"The one! I can't believe I got him – I mean, that's the guy I watch on TV every day. Can't believe I'll be meeting him – if we get there alive, Oliver," Ginny said.

"You might finally learn how to cook, even if he fails at dancing," Oliver earned himself a light smack on the arm. "Steering wheel, Gin!"

"I'll risk it," she glared at him. "How 'bout you, Oliver?"

"Someone named Pansy Parkinson?" he twisted his face. "What is this Pansy famous for, apart from a horrible name?"

"Jesus on a cracker! You don't know who she is, Oliver?"

"Hermione, it's you who is the walking _Encyclopedia Britannica_ crossed with Google, not me. So, please, enlighten me, who is this supposedly famous person I've never heard of?"

"The chief editor of _The Dazzle_, the queen of celebrity gossip, the person who can make you famous or destroy your reputation, depending on her mood?" Ginny recited.

"Did you just say that in one breath?" Oliver's eyebrows shoot up. Ginny rolled her eyes. "Celebrity gossip? Woe is me," Oliver is steering the car towards the parking places behind the large building of _3Studios_.

"Dear me, woe is you," Ginny poked him in the arm again. "Because you have met your match, mister. This is going to be one very interesting season."

Oliver had found a free spot and successfully parked his car without smashing the cars parked nearby. Hermione got out, stretching lightly, looking at the wide, uncomfortably grey building. It reminded her of a hospital. Whoever built it wasn't very concerned about aesthetics.

"Ready?" Ginny asked and Hermione gave her a smile. As much as she was nervous at the time they picked her up at the school after a class, Hermione felt relaxed after thorough banter and laughter.

"As I will ever be, considering how much in love I am with this idea," she said.

"Oh, come on, Hermione. You'll love it," said Oliver with a confident smile.

And so they went inside.

**-xx-**

There was nothing in the world equally worth as arriving to your meetings prepared. It meant nothing could throw you off, and Draco preferred things that way. He was pretending to listen to idle conversation the group around him was making – that bleeding idiot Longbottom was prattling about cooking, Parkinson was faking interest in his ingenious broccoli – cheese dish, while Cedric Diggory, the football player Diggory (there was also another famous Diggory, with slightly more wits than this one), laughed at every single joke that was made. That was after he apologized a billion and one time for offering Draco some tea. (Lately, the best way to insult him was offering tea. Every single damn newspaper liked to call him "The prince of tea", which he hated of course. It was a tasteless way of rubbing salt into a fresh wound. He started to hate the damn thing. He had nothing to do with the way his father handled the family business, but Draco himself grew up in certainly privileged circumstances because of said business business and in some twisted logic a whole lot of people seemed to agree that he deserved the hate and a bad name. Diggory took ten seconds too much to realize what he was saying and then he was apologizing until everyone around them became embarrassed.) The other little group of "celebrities" stood close to them, listening to that incredibly annoying man, Lockhart, talking about all the famous films he'd made. (Draco couldn't remember watching a single one.) They were positively a charming bunch – so charming, in fact, that Draco was about to go over to that huge table and help himself with the tea.

His irritation aside, Draco supposed this was a normal thing to expect in quite un – normal circumstances. The people around him were trying to find some connections between each other and he chimed in with witty remarks that were bordering impolite, just to check how much these people could take. So far they seemed to keep their amiable attitudes, which was kind of sickening. Draco hoped someone would have some spine and give him an excuse say what he really meant of this entire scenario. No such luck, it seemed.

They were here to meet and get to know each other and learn how things worked. Okay, so he had no _real_ reason to antagonize any of them, and after twenty minutes he decided that he wouldn't do it, at least not right away. Parkinson was doing just that with remarkable speed and effect, but everyone knew she was a bitch. He was supposed to prove the opposite. So, it was possibly good that Diggory relaxed next to him and Longbottom mentioned how his favourite brand of tea was _Malfoy Greens Selection_. And then everyone looked at Diggory, who looked at Longbottom, who then looked at Draco. And then they laughed. All of them. Draco laughed as well. That didn't mean, though, that he enjoyed this.

Most of their dancing partners were here as well, and Draco appreciated the lovely ladies, named Katie and Angelina. It was decidedly difficult determining which one looked more attractive, but sadly none of these was his partner. Angelina was supposed to dance with Diggory, and Draco supposed she was luckier than Katie, who got Lockhart.

Speaking of connections and women, and dancing partners which didn't show up yet. He knew just what Blaise had gotten him into.

He would easily call Hermione Granger classy, perhaps even decent looking, hadn't she been former Missus Weasly. Oh, and there was that incident with a glass of wine (red wine) thrown at his face, which ended mostly on his shirt, which he had to throw away later.

Suddenly the main door to the conference room opened.

Well, there she was. Three people walked inside; the Weasel's sister, his ex wife and some bloke that looked as intelligent as Diggory's sense of humour must have been. Brilliant. The Creevy duo were all over them at once and neither of the newcomers had noticed Draco so far.

Blaise had set him up well, allright. Or perhaps not Blaise himself, because nobody wanted to deal with the rotten tomato that had his family name stamped on it. In Blaise's words, the interest in his and Nott's tour had been "a little better than abysmal", and someone at _Fidelius Records_ demanded that Draco took part in precisely this show. He wondered if the had an obnoxious assignment for Theo as well. Also, who on Earth thought that pairing him with the ex wife of Ronald Weasly, whom Draco openly couldn't stand, was a good idea, was yet to be found out.

That is, if he survived today. Because She – Weasel had just spotted him, and, oh of course she knew who he was. That horrible sad excuse of a man who ripped apart her brother's début album. (Deservedly, of course.) Draco could see the colour of rage on She – Weasel's face. Wonderful.

"Colin. What is _he_ doing here?" it was fascinating how Draco could hear her from across the room. His new friend Diggory turned around, and everyone else in the group followed suit.

Oh, and now Granger ex – Weasly was looking at him as well, and she _definitely_ remembered him.

"He's actually a contestant, Ginny," poor Colin said and Ginny started walking forward, then stopped, when that bloke who came with them put a hand on her shoulder.

"Wait, don't tell me -" Weasly girl looked at Colin, then at Granger, then the other Creevy brother joined. "Colin?"

Behind Draco, Diggory had brilliantly caught onto the fact that something is wrong.

"What is going on?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing," Draco answered. _Fuck you Blaise and fuck you Fidelius bastards_. "It's just that I am acquainted with the ladies. They must be surprised to see me."

"That would be an understatement of the century," Pansy Parkinson was loud enough for the entire room to hear, and now everyone was observing this charming little scene. Damn it all to hell and back, Draco thought. He would not be provoked.

"I will have you know, Miss Parkinson, that I am a man with manners," Draco replied. If his former comment was an understatement of the century, this one was an outright lie. "Which is why I am being polite right now," he even managed a cocky smirk.

"Oh, puh-lease," Ginny Weasly was obviously not buying it. "I think I recall several occasions where you excelled at your manners," she said.

"This is a free world, Weasly," Draco's eyebrow shot high. "There's a thing called freedom of speech. You're not obliged to agree with me, or the things I write or say, but that hardly makes me uncivilized," he said.

"Ginny," that was Granger. Her gaze was pretty heavy and set on him. How on Earth was this supposed to work out, damn it? Blaise, you idiot, why aren't you here to see for yourself that this is. Not. Going. To. Work?

"Okay, ladies," Coling Creevy looked at two women and then Draco. "Yourself included in that company. I am aware that circumstances are rather awkward -"

Pansy snorted behind Draco's back.

"I think we should all get some popcorn," she said.

"I am convinced, though, that we can all handle this like _civilized people_," Creevy was proving to have _some_ spine. Ginny Weasly was still fuming, but she wasn't saying anything any more, and she probably wasn't going to punch him. Not right now, anyway. Creevy looked at Granger then, who seemed more collected than her friend, but she definitely wasn't happy. "Hermione, as you probably know this is -"

"I know who he is, Colin."

"She owes me a shirt, actually. It was Armani, by the way," Draco said in a fake light voice, pushing his hands into his pockets. At that a mortified expression crossed Granger's face, which was replaced with a glare a moment later. After a few more moments, which might have easily been a scene from Sergio Leone's film, Granger lifted her chin.

"If you don't mind, Colin, I would like to talk to my new dancing partner in private," she said.

"Certainly, Hermione. There's an office over there," he pointed toward a door on the right side of the room.

"Hermione," She – Weasel was so much like her annoying and less pretty brother, shooting daggers from her eyes.

"I've got it, Gin," Granger sounded confident enough. She went for the door first, but Draco was nothing if not a man with manners. Impeccable manners. She glared at him when he opened the door for her.

**-xx-**

Whatever Hermione was going to say flew had left her mind, other than telling Ginny,_ didn't you say something about someone Ron wouldn't like?_ She stared at the man in front of her. Did he have someone who styled that sort of outfit for him? His freakin' _shoes_ were colour matched to everything else, creamy soft browns a girl could wear. He would look nonchalant, but still incredibly put together. His appearance was saying _I can buy your ass_ ten times over.

Wonderful. Everything about him is screaming _I'm an aristocrat _in the worst way possible.

Hermione hated snobs, but merely being a snob wouldn't truly tick her off. This man here, however, was a source of daily frustration during her days with Ron. He was the worst kind of snob she could think of, a _musical_ snob. Draco Malfoy took it as his personal mission to cut apart everything that Ron did, because '_it was the insult to music itself'_. He and Ron had been at war of sorts, the media was having a ball with their immature public jabs at each other. The Leonard Cohen debate was legendary, oh and by the way, it had lead to the wine – scene.

"Allright, Granger," he said, like they'd been buddies all along. "No wine here."

_Civilized, my ass_, she thought.

"There is hot scalding tea in that other room, Malfoy," she said. "Perhaps you'd enjoy that?"

"Only if you throw it at me in front of everyone else. Otherwise, it's not going to be a spectacle like that last time. Or, you can wait and crush my toes with a heel or something," he added in an impeccably polite tone. "Whatever you dancers do."

She pressed her lips into a thin line and told herself to remain calm.

"Look, Malfoy. I'm here because I have to be. I'm here because it's my job, and frankly, I just want to be done with it. I don't care what you think of Ron or Bon Jovi or any other musician for that matter," she crossed her arms in a challenging manner, knowing well enough that she, unlike him, wasn't in the position of giving up. That is, if she didn't want to lose her job and end up paying debts to Dolores Umbridge.

Okay, she could break a leg, or inflict some minor injury to herself. But that would be like admitting defeat, and that was the last thing she wanted to do. There had been enough defeats of all sorts lately, this time she would not allow it.

"Oh, is that an attempt of civilized behaviour that I'm seeing here? Granger, I'm impressed."

"Well, look who's talking," she replied. "Make it easy for yourself, Malfoy, or just give up completely."

She wouldn't pull back from competition, but she had no issues if _he_ did.

There was something that flicked over Malfoy's face that definitely caught her attention, before he froze his features into one of those arrogant masks.

"You are, obviously, suggesting me to quit, which is a pleasure I am not going to afford to you," he said.

Well then, he was both stubborn and stupid.

"I am perfectly capable of teaching you how to dance and pulling this off. But I do not like you," she said. Draco Malfoy was a synonym for all things unpleasant, but that did not matter. She could do this, she had to, she had no choice, so he wasn't going to stop her, no matter what. He crossed his arms mimicking her, plastering a cocky smirk over his face.

"My, my. Aren't we making a progress here? Because this is one thing I agree on," he said.

"Oh, so you have some sanity and you don't like yourself? I am shocked."

She was well aware that was a low blow. His eyes flashed. She felt surreal. It was almost like her past was trying to force its way back into her life, not only through the front and back door, but through all the windows and basement as well. She took a deep breath, a literal and a mental one, reminding herself that this wasn't her fight, but Ron's. That Ron dragged her into it and she threw a glass of red wine at Draco Malfoy, an annoying, snobby, slimy git, after he and Ron had a verbal showdown at a public event. Ironic, right? She was divorced from Ron, she divorced her favourite songs, their mutual friends, but the animosity towards Draco Malfoy was still there to annoy her.

Life wasn't fair.

"Well, well, aren't you exceptionally witty and funny today?"

"Shut up," she said, opting for straightforward and down to a point.

"A matter easily solved, but I do have to point out that it's _you_ who keeps talking," he replied smartly. "Oh, don't give yourself an aneurysm, Granger. I don't like being here, doing this, especially not with you."

"So don't be, then," she felt there was something about the issue of quitting that was making him uncomfortable. When he twitched she was mostly convinced that, for some unthinkable reason, he wasn't going to quit, and it was not because he was desperate to win the competition.

"Are you two sure you're alive and well in there?" Dennis Creevy was shouting from behind the door.

"Hermione, do you need me to come inside and kick his sorry ass?" That was Ginny.

Malfoy frowned. "If I make your life easier, it will be only because it suits _me_."

She kept glaring at him.

"That means you'll have to do what I tell you."

"And I assure you, I don't know how I am going to bear that."

"Well that suits _me._"

"_Fine_."

"Hermione?"

"We're fine," Hermione raised her voice so they could hear her. She was still staring at Draco, who stared back at her. For some reason she thought of that scene in The Godfather just before Michael shot Sollozzo and McCluskey with Clemenza's gun. "You don't want Ginny Weasly after your ass," she said then in mostly normal voice.

"Oh, you bet I don't," he replied, and that was obviously it. He walked out first, making a point of holding the door open for her.


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

**-xx-**

The bell rung precisely three times and Hermione sighed, mentally saying goodbye to peace and quiet. She wasn't expecting anyone, even if it was barely eight o'clock in the evening. After the days she had, she wasn't in the mood for a visit.

"Who is it?" her voice was as unwelcoming as her mood was.

"Murder, she wrote," a familiar voice called from the other side of the door. "It's _me_, Hermione. I have food!"

Hermione smiled, opening the door where she met Harry's wide smile. He was holding a soggy umbrella at his side, and his hair seemed more wet than dry, but there he was, smiling. He had a big paper bag in his hands – he obviously sacrificed the dryness of his own head for whatever take out he had brought with him. The smell coming from it was promising a tasty Chinese treat.

"I wondered if Ginny would murder _you_ after that meeting today, considering you were the closest living being at hand" Hermione said, opening the door for Harry to enter. "Hello bones – and – bodies man."

"Hello, dancer. I heard you were making serious threats today. Was afraid I'd have to examine certain blond corpse," Harry kissed her cheek and a bit of tension Hermione was carrying crumbled away. They grinned at each other, after which Harry trotted into the small hallway, leaving wet spots with his boots. For a man who worked in a lab, which was always impeccably clean, he was incredibly clumsy.

"You klutz. Let me take that waterfall," she said, taking the umbrella to the bathroom.

Hermione took the take out bag while he was hanging his coat and taking off the boots, looking for suitable home slippers in Hermione's outstanding collection.

"I doubt they would have to call you even if I made good on my threats," she said. "I'd simply hide the body," she grinned cheekily.

"Oh, do tell where," Harry smirked at her, eyebrows shooting up in surprise, like they didn't do this joke a thousand times over.

"I don't know. I'd call _you_ to help me. You're the CSI guy."

Harry cocked his head and thoughtfully frowned.

"Wouldn't you worry his hair would glow in the dark? Or, you know, through anything you'd bury him under?"

"Ha – ha! That's a good one, mister Potter," said Hermione, poking his shoulder.

"Luna calls it morgue – humour," he said, grinning. To Hermione, this particular brand of humour was _sometimes_ funny. Most of the times it was a private joke between Harry and his colleague Luna Lovegood. Luna was a bit odd, to say the least, but Harry usually said that everyone in his profession was _somehow_ odd. It was a necessity, he said. _The most hilarious bunch of people you can imagine_, Ginny would add. _Don't ask where they keep their sandwiches_. (Which Hermione knew and proffered not to think about.)

"And it's different from Luna humour – how?"

"Luna humour is unique," he replied seriously. Hermione decided not to question that statement any further.

"Right," she said, walking towards the kitchen and the adjoining dining room as Harry followed her. Several minutes later Hermione set the plates on the table, Harry got the glasses. They spread out the meal and poured the drinks, just like in their school days. When she finally sat down across from Harry her mind was slowing down to its usual speed. Harry had that strange affect on her - to help her feel normal and safe on some level that was beyond her comprehension. He helped her calm down, even if they didn't say much, or anything at all. She realized she was feeling hungry, which was good, because she hadn't been truly aware of hunger for a better part of the week. Her body was literally the tool she worked with; with her body she communicated to the world; and when she was disconnected from her body, she knew things weren't good.

The food was simple and tasty, and they kept eating in silence until half of everything Harry had brought with him was gone.

"Bad day?" he asked then, grinning his way into the conversation. She smirked, because he knew for ages now, that stressed out Hermione was a hungry Hermione, even if she wasn't realizing it.

"Couldn't you tell?" she asked, taking another piece of bread.

Harry smiled. Hermione watched as he sipped his beer from the bottle, several little sips then pause, the same way since he first time he tried it. Everyone else she knew took big gulps. It was one of the Harry – quirks nobody understood. The point was, she'd been there, when he had his first beer. She had known Harry Potter thorough most of her life, and his own as well, and thus there were things she couldn't share with anyone but Harry; not in that quiet way that required little explanation, just like he didn't need to explain his way of drinking a beer.

"I talked to Ginny," Harry continued as he put his bottle down. Hermione nodded, drawing a mental picture of it, when Ginny probably stormed into their apartment. "Well, it was more like me listening to her yelling until she calmed down. Then she said she'd be okay with it all, as long as, and I quote, _that ferret faced, white haired slimebag behaves_."

"Yikes. _Ferret face_ is new," Hermione made a grimace as her voice slipped on the sound of laughter slowly growing inside of her chest. "Okay, this is a relief," she sighed and looked at him. "Thank you."

"For what?" His question was genuine.

"I'm glad you got to be her shout-box. But basically, I'm taking you for not having to ask you the favour I needed and I never would have asked anyway."

"Riiiight," Harry smirked, faking seriousness. " I'll pretend I understood that one. I am brilliant like that. So," he made a tactical pause and waggled his eyebrows. "I suppose you pissed off karma somehow," his not very elegant turn of the conversation earned him a piece of bread thrown at his head, but Hermione felt okay with it, and Harry knew this.

"I think you can say that my jaw dropped. Ginny wasn't pleasant at first, but then she calmed down later. We got our schedules. Photoshoot is tomorrow," Hermione shuddered with exaggeration. "The training – oh God – start in three days. Malfoy wasn't very happy, if you're interested about that bit."

"I think Ginny was more concerned about you than what Ron would eventually say, you know," Harry was gesturing with the fork. "Although we know Ron will have a fit. Aaaand that's it about _topic Ronald_," Harry assured and Hermione smirked. The shitty thing was this – Ron would never be truly out of her life, not if she wanted to keep Harry, Ginny and the twins. Hermione felt something in her twisting painful and mellow at the same. No matter how much she tried to close that gap, it was still there. She had to learn to live with it somehow, so she simply left it there, untended and sore, concentrating on Harry instead.

After the initial bad reaction from three of them – Ginny, Malfoy and Hermione – the things went somewhat smoothly. Hermione assumed that Malfoy didn't want to ruin his chances at the very start of things, but his presence to her felt like a rock of ice behind her back. She felt it – unpleasantly so – even if she didn't pay attention to him. What bothered Hermione, was the fact that she had to team up with someone who had been (and possibly still was) a source of frustration for Ron. Malfoy used to be a source of frustration to her as well. And then Ron simply wouldn't _remove_ himself from her life. He was Ginny's _brother_. Which was why things had become confusing, and it was best not to think about it.

It came down to teaching Draco Malfoy dancing. _Dancing_. Which was her... everything. Her way of life, her way of expressing herself, her work, her career. It was _personal_. And then, after she taught him how to dance, she had to _compete_. With him as her _partner_. While teaching him new choreographies. Compete against Ginny, against Oliver, against Angelina ….

"Uh oh. You're doing it," Harry waved his finger at her. She could tell Harry was going to joke their way out of all this jumbled mess and she wasn't going to protest.

"I am doing what, Mister Potter?"

"Thinking. You've got to _stop_," he waved his index finger at her. "Promptly. Or you're going to hurt that big brain of yours."

"Right," she chuckled at him. "how do you suppose _I_ should stop thinking?"

"We obviously have to distract you –" he was getting up and walking to her stereo set and CD player. "With something remarkably shitty. In fact, we have to do something _so_ shitty, you wouldn't even have the capacity to think any more."

"Heavens, Harry, what are you going to do?" she asked. He gave her a brilliant smile while extending his hand to her in too dramatic manner.

A moment later the music was filling the room, some song that sounded familiar and had a pleasant, not too fast rhythm, and before she could protest, Harry was pulling her up on her feet.

There was one thing about Harry, who was a _horrible_ dancer, but had no problem with it. He had no problem with being ridiculous in that odd, quiet manner. They twirled around the room, careful not to kick something over, and as Hermione struggled not to laugh too hard – because then they would collide with a piece of furniture. Her thoughts finally ceased to whirl. Finally, she fell into Harry's embrace and laughed herself into peacefulness as Harry, whom she knew since they were both lacking front teeth, clumsily swayed to the rhythm.

**-xx- -**

Ginny sighed heavily and sat into a chair next to Hermione, who kept fiddling with the red dress she was given by the wardrobe department of _Just dance_. It was a nice dress, and burgundy red complimented her, but Hermione had the perpetual feeling it would simply fall off. She _hated_ strapless dresses and sincerely hoped she would get to choose her own costumes for actual shows they were about to do in less than six weeks. Dancing clothes had to be pretty, of course, but the point of glitter and sequins wasn't to slip on them and break your nose.

"It's a photoshoot," Ginny said, attacking her own face with a large powder brush. "It's not like you'll be doing samba in that. Stop being so nervous," the younger woman gave Hermione's dress an amused look.

"Photoshoot from hell, Ginny. It's Dennis, Colin _and_ Malfoy. Can you think of something worse?"

"Actually, I can, but I'm not going to say it," Ginny grinned at Hermione's reflection in the mirror and made a face that was supposed to be funny, but her smile came out askew and awkward. Hermione frowned at herself, looking at the amounts of make up applied to her own face.

"Gah! Ginny, I am_ so sorry_," Hermione dropped her hands into her lap, abandoning the dress.

"Don't even mention it. _Damn hair!_ I shouldn't have freaked out like that yesterday -"

"One can't blame you, Gin."

"I know," Ginny got up and walked behind Hermione's chair, leaning forward and hugging Hermione. "I'll be good from now on, I promise. This is bad enough, I certainly don't have to make it worse."

Hermione's hand stopped fidgeting as she held Ginny's forearm.

"I've got this, Gin," Hermione stared at their reflections. "I do! Stop this overprotective thing you're doing. You know I'm more than capable of throwing liquid things at Malfoy, if needed."

"Just let me know if you need sharp pointy shoes as well," Ginny winked.

"Count on it," Hermione replied. Ginny took her seat again, resuming her efforts to tame her hair.

"I could scare a drag queen looking like this," she joked. "One would think I'd get used to pro make up."

"Well, I look like I've been riding with Oliver, with windows _down_," Hermione shook her head at her own appearance. "I don't think one can ever get used to this," Hermione gestured around her own face. The nice girl who applied her own make up was very passionate about the blush and eyeliner. That would probably look good on the photographs, but up close, Hermione could barely see herself underneath all those colours.

The make up and costumes department of _3Studios_ came down to two rooms connected by the door which wouldn't close all the way. With 'girls' in one room and 'boys' in the other, the commotion was constant. There were voices, shouting, music and general lack of time. Ginny was trying to tone down excessive amount of make up currently sticking to her face, and Hermione started fixing her hair. It was loosely pulled up, threatening to fall apart if she moved too much. Donna, the hairdresser who fixed it kept convincing Hermione that it would work out fine, but among all things Hermione was able to keep under control, her hair was an exception to the rule. It also responded to her mood, which, right now, wasn't a good thing.

At that point Colin walked inside, carrying his camera and looking like he could use a break.

"Hermione?" he called, giving her a slight smile. "You're next."

"Here we go," Hermione stood up and winked at Ginny.

"Yell if you need help choking anyone," Ginny said as she waved. Hermione smirked at her before going away.

Hermione followed Colin into another part of the studio – a large room filled with cameras, reflectors, fake walls and furniture props. Dennis was there, taking group photos of Neville, Oliver, Cedric Diggory and Malfoy. Currently they were pretending to fight over the cushioned, baroque looking chair, as Dennis kept taking photos, telling them they were _just great_. Oliver was needling Diggory about his general knowledge on dancing, and Malfoy joined in occasionally. Even though Oliver and Malfoy didn't seem to have any mercy towards Diggory, he didn't seem to mind at all, and Neville kept laughing at three of them. At one point they pushed Malfoy in the chair, standing around him, like they were re-enacting a scene from The Godfather. Was it bad that this particular film came to her mind twice in two days? Malfoy even crossed his legs, echoing the famous Pacino pose.

At that point Hermione's eyes met his, and she realized that she hadn't really looked him in the eye since she and Ginny walked into the conference room the day before. She yelled at him, yes, and she took a good look at his general appearance, but hadn't really looked at _him._

This time she did look, knowing she would have to before the photoshoot was done. The realization that she would have to stand close to him, put her arms onto him was settling down now, and she wouldn't be afraid to look him in the eye. Malfoy was nicely dressed for this – he was always nicely dressed, but whoever did his costume, made him look sophisticated. He had a dark grey suit which worked well with his own pale colors, a matching shirt buttoned all the way, and a neck tie which, actually, matched the colour of Hermione's dress. Even his hair looked better, styled into something uncharacteristically messy. As she did her best not to address him, apart from just looking at him, he arched an eyebrow and waved with said neck tie at her. It caused her eyebrow to shoot up, and he smirked in a blatantly cocky manner, like he'd won an argument right there.

_Bastard_. Was he saying _I look good and I know it_? He certainly seemed that way – most men had this ability to be overly confident about themselves. Why, again, was she stressing over her hair and dress? Why, she looked _gorgeous_.

"Hermione, can we begin?" Colin asked tiredly from somewhere behind her, and she turned around, ready to begin. She would have plenty of time to deal with Draco Malfoy.

**-xx- -**

"Stand closer to her, mate. She won't bite you," Dennis Creevy was handling the huge looking camera as if it were a woman. He was obviously enamoured at the damn thing, and both Creepy Brothers were taking their job _way_ too seriously. This photo session was taking bloody forever.

"Ha ha. You're sure about that, Creepster?" Draco wasn't particularly in the mood for being nice, but Dennis either didn't care or didn't even notice. The nickname caught on the minute Oliver uttered it earlier that day, adding Creepy Number One and Creepy Number Two for purposes of distinguishing between two brothers. Dennis was completely engrossed with his task at the moment – The Photoshoot. Draco suspected he could call him all the names he wanted and Dennis wouldn't bat an eye.

At his comment, Hermione elbowed him, and she wasn't too gentle. "Oi, woman! Are you trying to break my bones?"

He turned to look at her and, standing side – by – side next to him, she returned the look, telling him just how unimpressed and annoyed she was through a single stare. He fixed the neck tie and the itchy collar of his shirt. The camera produced several excited clicky sounds.

"Wow, that was fan-_tas_-tic!" said Dennis, looking at the camera's display. "Real chemistry here, you guys."

Draco groaned. _Someone knock this guy's head off, please? Or just stitch his lips together?_

"I think I hate you," Hermione said, crossing her arms. _Click._

"I'm pretty sure the feeling is mutual," Draco replied. _Click._ Draco had to shift his weight and move his arms.

"You're mimicking each other's stance. Perfect. This will be _perfect_," Draco frowned at Dennis and his muttering as he kept clicking with his camera. "Turn your head to the left a little bit, Malfoy. Right. Very well. Okay, now lean against his front, Hermione," Dennis was instructing.

"Are you sure I won't turn into an ice statue or a pillar of salt?" she aksed.

"Ash, Granger. Ash is more likely," Draco said. She leaned against him.

"Then I hope it will stick to your clothes and make them filthy," she glared in Dennis' direction. He, however, couldn't be bothered by the exchange going on in front of him. He was busy _clicking_ like a maniac.

"Hands on her shoulders, Malfoy," he instructed. Draco arched an eyebrow at the camera.

"Do I _have_ to?"

Dennis removed the camera from in front of his face and grinned in an utterly silly fashion. Was this bloke completely daft? Granger sighed dramatically in front of him, and Draco decided it was futile fighting against this, so he put his hands onto Granger's shoulders. A little too hard.

"Malfoy!"

"I apologize, Granger," he said in an unapologetic manner.

"Yes, and I _believe_ you," he could practically feel her eyeroll in her voice.

"Curve of her shoulders," Dennis said. "Ah, that's it. Blimey, you two look great. You don't even have half the idea how good you look –"

"I think we don't want to," Granger replied.

"Heavens, Granger, I could actually agree on that," Draco leaned a bit closer.

"Great," Dennis was beaming. "A bit closer. Great!" Draco imagined how it would feel to take that camera away from him, and wondered if that would wipe that stupid smile off his face. "Few more in the sitting position," Dennis said. "Over there."

"How long do we have to endure this torture, Creepy Number One?" Draco asked as he followed Hermione toward the baroquely couch prop on the other side of the studio.

"Yes, exactly, Dennis. How long?" Granger's voice was agitated and strained as she sat next to Draco. Dennis ignored the questions, contently clicking the little button. Then he started to boss them around like he did for past half an hour – _sit like this, sit like that, lean this way, lean that way, lean against each other, go for that bored aristocrat look, Malfoy_ –

"The what?"

"He means your _normal_ face," Granger turned to him, sounding mean and amused at the same time, as Dennis clicked and exclaimed how awesome it all was.

"Okay, just a few more," Creepy Number One actually detached the camera from his face and just stood there. Then he frowned and Draco wondered if his head was going to explode. He looked at two of them, sitting on that couch as the insane wheels inside of his head were obviously spinning out of control. "Right. Yes. _Hrm._"

"What?" Draco and Granger asked in unison, sounding equally pissed off. At that point Creepy Number Two entered the room, looking agitated. He walked towards his brother with another camera in his hands – he was, probably, torturing other unlucky souls in the adjoining room of the studio. Despite his superior hearing, Draco couldn't make out what the brothers were saying to each other, but it seemed like Number Two wanted to wrap things up. Draco couldn't object that. The couch was uncomfortable, and frankly, he wasn't crazy about sitting this close to Granger. God only knew how was he supposed to dance with this annoying woman.

"That's GENIUS!" Creepy Number One suddenly exclaimed, as Creepy Number Two nodded. They both turned towards them.

"Allright…. Where's the bow?" Colin asked.

"Huh?"

"What?"

"Where's your _cello_?" Colin clarified nervously and Draco frowned as he pointed towards the far corner of the studio. Dennis took several inevitable photos of him playing and posing with the instrument earlier, which was far more pleasant than posing with the opinionated, annoying harpy that sitting next to him. Colin brought the bow, and Draco glared at him just in case, as if simple carrying would damage it. "Great. Hermione, get between his legs."

"_What?_"

"The – um – sit on the floor between his knees," Dennis was gesturing awkwardly. Granger looked appalled. "As if _you_ were the cello."

"Colin –"

"It's going to be great, trust me," Colin had a slightly manic expression on his face.

"I'm not sure I -" Granger begun. Draco, on his part, wasn't crazy about the idea either, but at this point he'd do anything, just to get this over with, _please._

Then something unexpected happened. Collin snapped.

"Hermione! For God's sake! It's just a picture –" Collin moved quickly forward. "Look –"

He took her by the hand and both Draco and Granger were taken aback by Colin's outburst that they let him position both of them into an awkward pose. "Sit like this, look up at him, yes, and raise your left hand – now hold it, Malfoy, as if she were –"

"Hardly possible –" Draco looked at Colin even as if his fingers wrapped around Granger's wrist. Her arm lacked the strings, obviously, but he positioned his fingers as if they were there. Granger gave him a strange look. She was probably uncomfortable, sitting like that, but he wasn't feeling any better either.

"Well then _pretend_, okay? The bow here," Colin positioned Draco's hand that held the bow in the air, and it looked like he was about to start playing. Only his instrument had turned into a woman, whose hand was grasping the tip on his bow now, per Colin's instruction. "Try _not_ looking like you want to kill each other," Colling sighed. "Because it's getting childish. _Smile_ at her, for God's sake, Malfoy! She's pretty. This is a fun show. Try to look happy, or at least pleasantly surprised that she's not a piece of wood with strings!"

Smile didn't work out, but as the camera clicked, Granger sat still and her face morphed from anger into something Draco couldn't define. He tried not to look directly at her, but they were awfully close, and he realized dancing with her would probably feel similar. Very awkward. Very _uncomfortable_. He realized this could be harder than he initially expected.

He was aware of his own expression changing, and her body relaxing just slightly, and by the end of it, the looks they were giving each other were probably toned down, possibly looking like confusion about the position they found themselves in. Or something along those lines.

(He wasn't aware what Dennis was seeing through the camera lens. It seemed more like tentative testing of the boundaries, and that it didn't look unappealing _at all_.)

"You two are just _joy _to work with," Collin fumed when Dennis was _finally_ done.

"You were awesome," Dennis said, and Draco couldn't figure out why on Earth he looked like he had fun.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello again! Did you miss me? I certainly hope you did. Here is a new chapter, entirely focused on Draco. We've already seen some bits of Hermione's background, we know aspects of her personal history, and I felt I needed to define Draco with more precision before they start moving forward together through the story. (I also tried defining Draco's musical taste. I fear my choices are pretty cliché, but compositions I picked really sound good on cello. Give it a listen.) **

**I like how this chapter turned out, and I hope you will as well. As always, thank you for the encouragement, messages, comments, alerts, favourites – those mean SO MUCH to me. Also, I will try to reupload previous three chapters and fix the horrible formatting and spelling mistakes. **

**See you at the next chapter? **

**- - xx - -**

**FOUR**

"Oi, Malfoy!"

Draco groaned inwardly and turned around. All he wanted was to escape this goddamn place, because he had enough of everything for one day. He never enjoyed _picture taking_ and today's affair was seriously competing to rank among top ten most ridiculously wasted days he'd ever had.

"You're not running away, aren't ya?" Draco turned around to face Neville and Diggory. They looked almost as shitty as he felt, and Oliver Wood was just behind them. They, however, seemed to be in a better mood, which was quite a turnoff.

"Actually, I am," Draco closed the hard case of his cello and lifted the strap to his shoulder. "I require my beauty sleep. The life of a musician is a difficult one."

"Oh, _of course_," Oliver said, a corner of his lips lifting in a sceptical smirk. "Bet you have to stretch every single finger before you start playing and all that."

"You don't even have an idea," Draco replied, matching Oliver's sarcasm as he started to walk towards the exit. The three of them followed him, not looking like they've given up on whatever they had in mind.

"Morning tea as well, eh?" said Oliver. Draco turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow because that was just. _Not._ A. Good. Joke.

"Oh, come on, man," Diggory nudged Oliver. "Don't be mean to him," he said, and God, wasn't this Diggory the _nicest_ person ever? Draco barely resisted rolling his eyes. "I bet we could all use a beer, what do you say, Malfoy?" Diggory was in such nauseating good mood.

They stopped in the middle of the hallway, Draco on one side, and three of them on the other. Okay, that was just not the right picture, he thought. People would either suck up to him or stay the hell away from him because he definitely wasn't Little Miss Sunshine. They weren't nice to him, and they didn't ask him for a random round of drinks – unless, of course, they wanted something, which meant the three angels here had some sort of plan.

"You are asking me to join you for a drink?" Draco asked, utilizing his not very pleasant tone of detached disbelief. Three of them nodded, seemingly unaffected by Draco's general attitude. No, that couldn't be all, and it certainly couldn't be good. People weren't simply so _nice_. Not to him anyway.

"Come on, man," Neville said. "Best to grill Wood on everything he knows about this before we even start."

"That's a reasonable argument, trust me," Oliver added. "The information I can share is invaluable."

"Hmm," Draco regarded them suspiciously. "No, that's not all. You want something. Spill," his tone got the three of them exchanging looks. Draco crossed his arms and raised his eyebrow at Diggory, the weakest link. "What do you want to grill _me_ about?"

"Blimey, mate. We're just curious about you," Neville clarified finally, raising hands in the air. "You don't seem like the spawn of evil, as I've heard several times over. I'm kind of wondering where's the catch, and do you do the Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde thing."

"And if you do, how we can prevent it," Oliver added helpfully.

Draco snorted. "Oh bloody hell. You obviously confused me with my father. Last time I checked all the lovely names referred to him, or are you saying I've got a title I myself aren't aware of?"

Neville cleared his throat. "Actually, I _have_ met your father. He likes to eat in fancy places, and I owe few of those," he made a face.

"Besides, we want to discover how many tea jokes you can stand," Oliver added.

"Not many, I assure you," Draco answered, wondering if they were simply insane. They wanted to get to know him better?

"Well then, you can just glare at us and have a beer," Diggory suggested. "And we will tell you if you've been sufficiently scary. Perhaps you could use that with the show's judges."

Draco could hear Blaise's nagging voice at the back of his head, telling him to _use this chance smartly_. There was something else, like an indistinct scatter at the background of his mind, wanting to be heard, but Draco mentally pushed it away. He figured that knowing your enemies and keeping them close was one of the better things he learned from films he watched. He already had wasted the day. Several more hours couldn't hurt, especially if he made these poor sods believe what Blaise wanted him to do in first place – that he wasn't so bad after all. Besides, knowing what they were like could prove to be an advantage.

"I suppose my day has been wasted already and having a good beer could actually improve this horrid situation," Draco said aloud. "That kis, if three of you don't prove to be equally horrid company." Three other men grinned, Diggory patted Draco's shoulder and Oliver instructed them to follow him if they wanted to get the best beers they could never imagine.

And thus, Draco followed his new not – friends to a quite unusual evening out.

**-xx-**

"... anyway, everything was ruined. All the food, burned. And the guy, I mean, _the meanest_ food critic was out there. Waiting. I was about to have a nervous breakdown when Bertie said, let's put alcohol in everything we give him. So, I mixed a cocktail that could knock out a horse and by the time we reached the main dish, poor old sod was barely sitting," Neville was obviously nearing the state of inebriation he was currently describing. His waving hands had almost knocked down a beer bottle, but Diggory had remarkable reflexes, even when under influence. Draco noticed the parallel nature of his own thoughts, and the way he listened to the conversation while slowly losing the thread that measured his own state of soberness. His sharp sense of rhythms around him was weakening, different beats of three men blurring into numbly pleasant, alcohol induced buzz. Neville was prattling on and after one beer too many he didn't sound as annoying. "He wrote a good review, I've sent him a lunch with desserts to apologize. He likes to tell that story now. People still ask about the cocktail but I don't remember what I've put in it."

They laughed. Draco laughed as well, finding he was far beyond the point of caring.

"Huh," Diggory pointed at him with the top of his beer bottle. "You've lost the frown," he said.

"Brilliantly observed, Football Player," Draco's verbal skills were still intact though. His companions found that hilarious and laughed aloud.

"Enough beer for you, Mister – Cellist," Oliver pretended to confiscate the drink sitting in front of Draco. "Tea time."

Draco glared. They laughed. Draco couldn't really help it – drunken people laughing drunken laughter couldn't be beat with logical arguments. He ought to find illogical ones, but his own brain felt scrambled and slippery, so he laughed along. He didn't particularly want to, but it was easier than anything else.

"Let it be clear, that we shalt all stay away from our dear Neville here and his cooking, when it's the time to dance," Oliver announced. More laughter.

"And we shalt not touch Mister Grumpy Tea's bow," Diggory was attempting to imitate Draco's frown.

"You have to work on that death-glare, Diggory," Draco said. "Also, I think you should all be served a round of tea, because you're butchering proper grammar."

"Well, aren't you the resident authority on tea here?" Oliver asked, and others snickered. Draco had this peculiar feeling, something between being terribly irritated and comfortably amused as Oliver continued to needle him. "Does any go down well with beer?"

"Real men drink it with far stronger stuff," Draco grinned a little evilly, causing a chorus of unison ooohs.

"And that is – what?"

"Ah, nuh – nuh," Draco waved his finger in front of Oliver's face. "You have to prove yourself worthy. Not to mention, being able to handle such experience."

There was more ooohing.

"That was some gauntlet, Malfoy," Neville said.

"Allright," Oliver straightened. "We shall see if you're a man enough to dance samba. _Properly_," he said.

"God save us," Neville sighed. "For manhood is questioned and tested by tea drinking and arse shaking. Which means we've probably had enough to drink."

"You might be just right, considering that lessons start tomorrow," Diggory said. "And that I'll need a ride home."

"Blimey. Did you really have to ruin my nice mood, eh?" Draco shot back. "I prefer this -" he gestured around the table filled with glasses and bottles, "to _dancing_."

"Oh, sorry. I forgot you don't like Hermione," Diggory was fast to apologize, but with a significant dose of teasing in his tone.

"Not _liking_ her must be the understatement of the century. Which may not be bad, actually. I cant wait to see what happens with the two of you," Oliver's eyebrow waggle was single mindedly suggestive.

"Wood, even the mere _assumption_ of whatever you were thinking about is completely gross," Draco replied. "Repeat it, and I'll consider myself offended."

"Oh, is it? It seems you were thinking of something particular yourself," Neville shot back. Oliver lifted his hand before Draco could reply to_ that_.

"Is it really true, that she spilled a drink into your face?" Oliver has long lost the little of inner censor that he had. He stared at Draco, waiting for an answer.

"Not into my face, Wood. All over my unique,_ very_ expensive shirt. I cried a river," Draco said, rolling his eyes dramatically.

Oliver was about to reply when Draco felt the vibrations of his cell phone that he had put in his backpocket. The number on the display said 'mother', which had a momentarily sobering effect. His mother didn't call him very often, and he had learned long time ago that a phone call from mother rarely meant something positive. The sounds around him came into sharp focus, the rhythms disentangling themselves as the buzz of drinks and laughter faded away.

"Everything okay?" Neville asked and Draco remembered himself, schooling his features into a neutral expression.

"Certainly. Excuse me, fine gentlemen," he smirked in order to keep his reputation intact, "I have to take this call."

**- - xxx - - -**

Family lunches were not a good thing.

There were several types of family lunches and each of those required a strategy. With mother alone, Draco could discuss particularly awful music, or concerts he attended recently. Those lunches were calm, but they left him feeling fed, but not quite full. The other type of lunch was with both of his parents, where Draco preferred answering the questions in shortest form possible, because all conversations he had with his father were the same. Nothing new was asked and nothing new was answered; his father still wanted him to join the family business and quit wasting time playing music. His mother would flinch, as if she was physically struck, but usually didn't say anything.

The worst kind of affair was adding his aunt to the mix. Aunt Bella, to be precise. His _other_ aunt never made an appearance, and her name was effectively banned. In his younger age Draco didn't really understand this (and took the unwritten rule for granted), and now he preferred not to think about the possibility that aunt Andromeda called his father out on the same things which were filling the newspaper articles now.

His parents owned more than just one house (and more than just one anything. Except for one thing, which was actually his mother's ownership). He had the key to all, but he always rang the bell. He waited until he heard a faint, hushed sound of movement behind the door, recognizing the nervous rhythm as his mother, and a moment later met her eyes. Her calmness was a mask. The situation had to be quite worse than what she described last night, so he leaned close and kissed her cheek, like a proper son was supposed to do.

"Hello, darling," she greeted, and Draco disliked the feeling that settled in his chest.

"Hello, mother. How are you?"

"Well enough," her sharp exhale said the opposite than her words. The fact that she came to open the door, instead have Maggie or Charles do it was telling. She even took his coat and Draco braced himself for a long afternoon. Was he meaner than usual and did he make the karma extra angry? He could almost feel aunt Bella's presence in the house, which meant the lunch his mother invited him to was not going to sit well. And after an overdose with family matters he had a bloody dancing lesson scheduled, at six o'clock in the afternoon.

"Is father around?" he asked, because he had to ask. He didn't want to, just as he didn't particularly want to talk to his father, but it wasn't something he could avoid.

"In his study," mother answered, thin little lines appearing around her mouth. Then she smiled a real smile, and Draco smiled back. He missed talking to her often, but it was something he had to get accustomed to. "Shall we, darling?"

"Certainly, mother," he said, following her through long, dimly lit corridor of his childhood. The carpet was thick but not soft, the house was elegant, but not inviting. He appreciated it but he did not like it – with exception of two rooms. Was he childish if he wanted to climb upstairs and close the doors behind him, so he'd stay all alone in the quiet studio where his mother didn't pull down the curtains, and where she kept her cello?

She had just one. One instrument, prudently cared for, ever since he remembered. It was old, and even though she rarely played now, it was always tuned. The cello got most attention when Draco left his parents downstairs and temporarily ceased wondering if every single family was equally screwed up as his was. He'd lose himself in _Cavatina_, in _Clair de Lune_ and _Moonlight Sonata_. The music had qualities that the rest of the world lacked – purposeful structure that made sense. It didn't exist to cause harm. The music could simply exist, despite someone liking it or not.

The other room was somewhat more of a secret, meaning his loyalty to it wasn't as obvious as with his mother's music room. After he accompanied his mother through the house and into the spacious library where she liked to spend her time, and had talked to her for over an hour, he made his way toward the kitchen. Wasn't that the oldest stereotype out there? Seeking the warmth and comfort at the place where food was being made? It possibly was, but while he kissed mother's cheek and behaved around her like a perfect image of a gentleman since he was three, Maggie was the person who hugged him breathless and told him he obviously wasn't eating well, now when he was living on his own.

Maggie worked for the family longer than he even existed. She cooked and she took care of clothes and dust; she held the three year old Draco when he fell and hurt his knee (at the same time his father was telling him to calm down instantly, like the walking stereotype that he sometimes was). Charles was allright too, but Draco preferred Maggie. He might have been the "young lord Malfoy", as both of his parents insisted, but he had to be put in place, which Maggie never hesitated doing.

"Dear heavens, boy! You look famished," she said after he walked in and found her baking something that smelled good and familiar.

"As I always do," he said. "When are you going to accept that I am the skin and bone type?" She was well in her sixties, but she was still agile. The hug he got left him somewhat , and then she looked him from head to toe and shook her head at his deliberately sloppy appearance.

"Trying to make your father's day, aren't you?" she raised an eyebrow at him and he smiled, giving her a look that sometimes worked. "Draco Malfoy, you are _not_ five any more, even though you are still endearing," she said. "And I am not certain I like this new style of yours. You're such a fine looking young man. You should dress like one."

"Maggie, fine looking young men rarely walk around wearing suits and ties. Times have changed."

"Not for the better, I fear," she said.

"How is my aunt, Maggie?" he asked. That was, after all, his mission. To fix the crazy. That had to be biggest irony ever.

"Not good. Not at her worst either, but things aren't looking up," Maggie said. She sighed and shook her head. "Your mother tried to bring her lunch, and dinner. I tried as well. She wouldn't take it, and she threw her medicines out of the window."

_Good grief. _

"And where is she?"

"Upstairs," Maggie said briefly. Of course she was _upstairs_. Some things around here went unspoken, but he felt more comfortable asking Maggie about this.

"Then upstairs it is," he said.

Before he could leave, Maggie caught his hand. "You are such a good boy. You always were."

"And you're an oddity, Maggie."

"Perhaps, but I am right," she said. "Make sure to stop by before you leave. I'll pack you some decent food. You should come by more often, dear," she said. Draco nodded and smiled at her before he walked through the door.

Nearing the large staircase, Draco assessed the situation at hand. His mother was displaying all signs of distress, his father was absent as usual, and his poor aunt was insane. Draco decided not to wonder where that left him as he slowly climbed. He stopped in the middle, though, because there was more creature that offered him a welcome warmer than the one he usually got from most of his human relatives .

"Hey, Dixie," he said to the old Saint Bernard lying in the middle of the carpeted staircase. Dixie wasn't old, he was _ancient._ He could barely move, but he always got on his feet and dragged that heavy mass of bones to Draco. "You slobbering monster," Draco said as he buried his hands behind large, floppy ears. Dixie was officially his father's dog, but in reality he was more Draco's dog. The dog and his boy, to be precise. That's how it was. Draco remembered it took several years of growth to have his own waistline above Dixie's broad back. He should have taken the dog with him when he left, but he had little room and almost no time and didn't want to think about the fact that those were, possibly, just excuses. "Have you gone mad as well?"

The dog, of course, had no concept of going mad. He didn't hold grudges, he didn't walk up to Draco and asked, _why have you left_. He enjoyed being scratched behind his ear. Dogs lived in present, people lived in their little fucked up worlds consisting of pasts, beliefs and family businesses. Draco stayed with Dixie a few more moments and then climbed the final few stairs before he found himself in front of _that_ door.

"Auntie Bella?" he called. The last person whom he really wanted to call 'auntie'. She didn't respond, just like he knew she wouldn't, and he kept knocking and calling, knowing that downstairs, his mother was listening to his voice, that her right hand was clenched in a fist; that his father was in the room across the hall, and that he ceased doing whatever he was doing. "Auntie Bella?"

"If you're not my nephew, you should go away," Draco heard her voice and disrupted rhythm of her steps. She was _not_ well. He was good with sounds, he knew them, he knew the whole range of aunt Bella's insanity. "They called police last time."

"I assure you, it's me," he said, sounding a little arrogant and bored, a bit like his own father. It should prove that it's him and not someone else, because Draco wasn't affectionate to her. The silence was followed by disturbing sound of laughter which was not happy.

"They wanted to put me in a padded room. With yellow door and bars on the window," she laughed again and he closed his eyes. _And so they will, dearest aunt. It's bound to happen._

"Aren't you hungry, auntie Bella? I came over for a lunch," he said. He heard a distinct _click _and sighed.

"Yellow door. Shiny shoes," he heard her reciting, her voice fading away along with her footsteps, and he carefully pushed at the doorknob. "_Dearest_ nephew," she smiled her crazy smile, and it made him feel frozen and scared, but most of all it made him feel sorry. And that made him frustrated. "There was poison in my tea!"

He managed not to frown.

"Nobody will poison you," he said calmly. The room was a mess, an equivalent to her mental state – not as bad as it could get, but she was probably in here for couple of days. He looked at him suspiciously when he came closer, stepping over her belongings, as if she had switched personalities and was ready to attack. Physically. Which wouldn't be the first time. At times she did that, she was stronger than him, stronger than his father, and he didn't enjoy remembering those few occasions when two of them had to put her in the car. He was told that schizophrenia could do strange things to human body. It certainly shattered her mind.

"My only nephew," she said then, swaying on her feet, her eyes losing focus.

"Aren't you hungry, my dearest aunt?" She looked at him and then she started laughing and he hated that, but that particular expression of her insanity was easiest to handle. "Let me take you downstairs," he said. "Let me take you downstairs and we'll have a nice lunch together."

At that point he was able to take her hand and lead her into the hall.

"Ha ha. Nice lunch. Tell your father to stay in his fuckin' room!" she was yelling now, making her decomposing anger known to the family. "Don't bother, Lucius! She was right about you, yes she was right about you... haha, we were right ..."

"Of course she was right," Draco replied automatically, not really sure what she had meant. But whatever got her downstairs and convinced her to put food in her mouth, he'd end up saying.

The padded room was going to happen really soon.

**- -x x -**

The sky was a gloomy shade of grey, gradually becoming darker. Draco was sitting in his car, still holding the steering wheel and thinking of his day. His unexciting, completely predictable argument with father, who pointed out the article he found in today's newspaper, about the tour being "probably postponed due to organizational difficulties". (Which meant, not enough money from sufficiently interested sponsors. Blaise claimed he couldn't have done anything. Which was probably true, Blaise wasn't the guy who'd set him up.). The yelling match between Blaise and him, which lasted twenty minutes in cold air and sparse rain. The effort to convince his aunt to eat, take medications and sleep. The feeling of mother's old cello in his hands. The way his fingers felt stiff as he played, in attempt to focus his mind. His mother's long hug and a voiceless thank-you, and Maggie's basket filled with bread, cookies, things he could put in the freezer and warm up some time later.

He was staring at the low, wide building in front of him. The large windows and warm light behind them, and the thick, cold curtain of rain in between him and his unwanted goal. The people dancing. Hermione Granger, alone in a separate room, apparently warming up.

At that point he didn't hate her; he didn't hate Blaise or the people from the publishing company who should have helped out instead of dragging him further down. He didn't have sufficient energy to hate. He felt utterly frustrated instead – not quite hate, but not helplessness either. Just an uncomfortable compromise between the two.

He was cornered, and without many options. Behind the rain curtain, the woman who splashed a glass of wine into his face was performing some kind of spins. She slipped, fell, got up and continued. Draco inhaled and exhaled slowly. Any kind of action was better than none at all. Pulling the collar of his coat high around his ears, he left the dry shelter of his car.

– **x x -**-

At the same time, Blaise Zabini was on the phone.

"Did you get them? Good. I told you they were good! Now listen to me carefully – this is what you're going to do-"

He started explaining the details of his idea.


End file.
